


Tea Errors

by vignoms



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Baking, Cafe Owner Bucky Barnes, Dialogue Heavy, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Twitter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-02-28 10:48:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18754915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignoms/pseuds/vignoms
Summary: In which Steve has a fulfilling career as a freelance artist, a mild caffeine addiction, and a massive crush on the owner of The Java Jive, the café right across his apartment building.





	1. drinking milk on a monday

**Author's Note:**

> i'll be (hopefully) updating this weekly, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.  
> find me on twitter @vignoms!

Steve walks into The Java Jive, the little bell above the glass doors chiming to signify his entrance. He's immediately met with the pleasant tunes of jazz music playing through the speakers, and the familiar scent of coffee and baked goods. The café itself isn’t the biggest, but it's spacious, open. It’s a definite contrast to chain coffee shops, where tables are usually placed uncomfortably close to each other in order to cram in as many customers as possible. There’s a four-seater swing near the doors with plastic vines and flowers woven into the seats, and the rest of the café has potted plants littered around it, on overhead shelves and placed in corners.

The tinkling of the bell attracts the attention of the brown-haired man behind the counter, who looks up from where he's sliding a freshly iced and sliced cake into the display case. Said display is filled with dozens of pastries, all varying flavours and colours. Blueberry scones, fruit tarts, strawberry shortcakes, cinnamon buns, and other delicious things Steve can’t name.

A broad smile spreads across his face as soon as he spots Steve, one that causes his eyes to crinkle up at the corners. Steve smiles back in greeting, striding past the tables of people buzzing with their own private conversations.

"Hi," Steve greets.

"The usual?" the brown-haired man, Bucky, replies, and thus starts off the same ritual they follow whenever Steve drops by the café.

Steve nods and Bucky swings into action, keying his order into the cash register. Steve hands him a 10 dollar bill from his pocket and drops the change that Bucky hands him into the tip jar without a second thought. The tip jar is lovingly decorated with a small sign that says 'we knead the dough!', in the same rounded handwriting as the 'bucky :)' scrawled on the man’s name tag.

He shuffles over to the other end of the counter and leans over it, elbows coming to rest against the smooth marble. Bucky's a man about his height, and at this angle, Steve gets a front-row view to Bucky's muscles flexing as he expertly works the espresso machine with the efficiency of a skilled barista. Though Bucky usually goes for long-sleeved shirts, he's clad in a short-sleeved one today, which is so, so much better for Steve.

Steve's eyes diligently follow Bucky's movements as he drizzles caramel syrup into a cup, trying his hardest to commit the pathway of that one vein on Bucky's outer bicep, prominent as all hell under the bright hanging light above them, to memory.

Bucky has some of his soft brown hair pulled up in a half bun, Steve’s pleased to note. The rest of it falls loosely over the back of his neck, just shy of touching his shoulders. It doesn't come as a surprise to Steve, as Bucky tends to vary the way he wears his hair up often, jazzing it up every now and then with complicated braids and up-dos.

Bucky slides the finished iced caramel macchiato over the counter and fetches a slice of the cake he just put on display, plating it and serving it to Steve. "Apple cheesecake. It's new, try it and tell me what you think."

With how often Steve visited, Bucky had fallen into the habit of giving him a sample to taste-test whenever there was a new pastry on the menu. Initially, Steve had absolutely refused to take anything for free, but Bucky had easily persuaded him with the excuse that he needed the feedback to fine-tune his recipes. Steve knew it was bullshit since he could never provide commentary that was anything more than all the synonyms he could think of for ‘amazing’. He wasn't going to be difficult and protest against it, though.

When The Java Jive opened up sometime 4 months ago, Steve had waited until the initial hype of the grand opening died down before he decided to check it out for himself. If the coffee was decent enough, he could finally forgo the 10-minute walk to the nearest Starbucks whenever he needed his caffeine fix. What he didn't expect though, was to be met with a breathtakingly attractive man at the counter.

Well. Not really. Steve was looking through rose-tinted glasses here.

In reality, Steve hasn't seen Bucky more dishevelled than he was that very first evening they met, the stress of the big opening clearly having gotten to him. His hair was frizzy and sticking up in odd places like he had been repeatedly running his hands through it and messing it up. His under eyes were dark, and the way he carried himself just emanated lethargy. Steve still thought he was cute though, in that weird ‘tired goth bf’ sort of way.

But he quickly learnt that his initial opinion of Bucky couldn’t have been farther from the truth. If anything, Bucky had to be a prep. Or a jock, though Steve highly doubted it. The man was built like a tank, but wasn't ostentatious in the way that athletes were.

As Steve kept coming back, both for the coffee and the opportunity to ogle at Bucky again, Bucky started recognising him as a regular and struck up small-talk over the counter. Naturally, Steve easily charmed his way up the ranks to obtain the esteemed title of Bucky’s favourite regular. And he wasn't going to jeopardise that just because he felt like denying Bucky’s generous offers of free cake anytime soon.

Picking up the fork, Steve cuts through the fluffy cake and lifts it to his mouth. The design of the cake, thinly sliced apples painstakingly arranged and set in a layer of gelatin, gets ruined in the process. He feels vaguely remorseful, but it's entirely worth it once it's in his mouth. The apples are sweet and crisp, while the cake itself is creamy and absolutely decadent.

He just chews for a moment, wanting to savour the taste as cheesecake melts on his tongue. When he's done, his lips curl up into a smile and he lets out a pleased hum. "It's really good," he praises, licking his lips. “Like, really fucking good.”

A satisfied look settles over Bucky's face at Steve's approval.

"I like the apples, must've taken you ages to get them in place," Steve continues, prodding at the apple slices with the tiny fork.

"Well, y'know. Gotta make it look nice, right?" Bucky answers with a small shrug. "You'd know, bein' a fancy artist and all."

"I'm not fancy," Steve disagrees, in a voice a tad bit softer than before. Ducking his head down, he twists the fork in his hand once. He decides for a second before cutting off another piece of cake to eat.

Bucky snorts and persists, "Don't get all coy, I've seen the sketches you leave when I clean up. And if those are the ones you trash, your work must be fucking amazing."

"Thanks," Steve mutters, cheeks starting to flush pink because of fucking course he had a crush on the cute café owner who gave him free food.

He knew how cliché it was to fall for him, but he did it anyway. How could he have not? Bucky looked like his ideal type, and was sweet, and he could bake.

The bell at the door chimes and they both turn to see a customer walking in. Bucky throws Steve an apologetic look. "I gotta handle this, talk to you later?"

Steve looks up and offers him a shy smile, nodding. "Yeah, yeah," he assures, rising and collecting his food. Taking a seat at a corner table, he pulls out his phone and opens up Twitter.

Being a freelance artist, his reputation online holds a lot of importance, and his social media acts as a portfolio of sorts for potential clients. His Instagram alone has almost 700k followers that scrutinise his posts, so the work that he uploads has to be carefully curated.

The thing is, he's a massive comic fan. Particularly the Captain America comics. He fell in love with them a few years back, when a close illustrator friend, Sam, introduced them to him. He even paints fan art pretty regularly, either of Captain America himself or the Winter Soldier, Cap's best friend turned highly competent assassin. But they didn't seem to fit his professional accounts, so he had to find somewhere else to post them.

Logically, he made a stan account. He didn't use it all that often when he first made it, only uploading art or voicing his opinions on the latest comic issue every once in a while. Then the café opened up near his apartment, and he started crushing on a certain café owner with pretty steel blue eyes and honey sweet smiles.

All of a sudden he started finding the account very useful for venting his feelings and making generally overdramatic thirst tweets. He figured it was harmless since he's never revealed anything on the account that could lead to Bucky or anyone else he knew finding out that he was running it. He's amassed a decent following of other Captain America fans over the time he's had the account, mostly for his art, but there are some followers who are there just to watch his chaotic self wax poetic about his café crush.

Shoving another piece of cake into his mouth, Steve types up a tweet with his other hand.

 

 **cap love bot** @captainshmerica:

 _guys Hot Barista Dude looks so soft and he was so sweet to me today i'm fhdjsj_ 💞💕💖💗💞💖😞💗💖

 

He hits the tweet button and smiles to himself as he mindlessly scrolls through his twitter feed. The lunch crowd starts to flood in after a while, so he rushes to finish the remainder of his cake, not wanting to hog the seat. He's got a commission at home to work on, anyway, so he swiftly grabs his drink and starts to make his exit.

Steve turns to the direction of the counter to wave goodbye to Bucky, but he's too occupied ringing a customer up to notice. He sighs and leaves.


	2. dumped my nervous tendencies

It’s the next night, and Steve’s recording the voice over for a speed painting video for his Patreon page. “—hope this tutorial conveyed my painting process clearly enough. Thank you for your support, and I’ll be back with another tutorial or speed paint soon!” he says cheerfully into the mic on his desk.

He turns off the mic and grabs his phone from where it's laying beside his laptop, clicking the home button. The screen immediately springs to life to display his lock screen wallpaper, a panel from one of his favourite Captain America runs, as well as the time. 7:46. Huh.

The Java Jive closes at 8, he thinks. If he's fast enough, he can still pop by to visit Bucky for the day, and maybe get some hot tea while he's at it.

He's wearing pyjama pants and a hoodie with the Winter Soldier on it that he got at a convention. He contemplates changing into something nicer but ultimately decides against it. He's only planning on seeing Bucky, and as long as he's got clothes on, he doesn't think Bucky would judge him.

Keys and wallet in tow, he makes the short walk from his apartment to the café. As he's approaching it, he cards his fingers through his hair to smooth it out. The blonde locks have grown a little past the top of his neck now, and he usually keeps them slicked back, away from his face.

A year ago he wouldn't have imagined himself growing out his hair to this length, with him always getting a trim when it started covering his eyes. Then there was a month or so where he was so tied up with commissions that he had practically put himself through self-inflicted house arrest. He just couldn't find the time for a haircut, so he opted to push his hair back using a sweatband he had found rummaging through his gym bag instead.

When he started taking days to reply to their texts instead of his usual instantaneous answers, Natalia and Sam—Steve’s closest friends—had come knocking at his front door. Their faces were laced with concern when they saw him and they’d immediately flared-up for making them worry, once they realised he was fine. When they had all finally settled down on Steve’s couch, the two of them launched into giving Steve a crash course on getting his shit together.

Natalia had lectured him on raising his commission prices so he could keep up with the demand for his work, having gone through a similar situation herself as a well-known sculptor. Sam just told him to _learn how to chill, man._ Both of them had only left his apartment that night after Steve promised that he'd try to follow their advice, and that they could pop by for movie night once a week. When Steve was bidding them goodbye at the door, Natalia complimented, "I like the hair, Rogers. You should keep it."

Acclamation from her was hard to come by, and Steve trusted her judgement when it came to style. So, reasonably, he kept it.

Steve pushes the doors to The Java Jive open. It's empty, save for Bucky. Without any customers, the wooden chairs and tables are left unoccupied, and the place seems almost hollowed-out. It’s the first time Steve really takes in the striking plainness of the bare off-white walls, devoid of any designs or posters. Bucky has his back to Steve, wiping down a table. When the bell sounds off, Bucky tenses up and his movements slow. A pang of guilt hits Steve square in the chest as he realises that Bucky must be exhausted, having run the café for the entire day. There are a few other baristas that Steve’s seen working there too, but most of the workload falls on his shoulders, seeing as he's the owner.

"Hi," Steve calls out.

Upon hearing Steve's voice, the brunette visibly relaxes and spins around to face him. "Hey,” he answers, placing his palms on the table behind him.

Steve promptly starts rambling in apology. "Sorry for coming in so late—"

"It's alright, I'm just happy you turned up today. Got worried when I didn't see you earlier," Bucky interrupts. He brings a hand up to tuck his hair back in place behind his ears. There's a thin braid by the side of his head, almost obscured from view amongst the dark brown locks. "Did you want to get anything? It’s kinda late for coffee, though."

"I was thinking tea? Chamomile, if you have it," Steve says, tentatively walking towards him.

"We do. Long day?" Bucky asks as he shifts his weight off the table and makes his way behind the counter to tap at the register screen.

"Mhm. Had a lot of work stuff to handle, just finished up with a speed paint before coming here.” Steve follows him to the counter and pulls a few coins and bills out of his wallet to make up the 2 dollars for the tea.

Pulling out a small square tin of tea leaves from a shelf, Bucky replies, "That's good to hear, bud." He stuffs some dried tea leaves in a metal strainer and sets that in a teacup, pouring hot water over it. When he's done, he turns to face Steve again, resting on the counter with his arms folded in a casual manner. "I like your sweater, by the way."

Steve looks down at the sweater in question, where a print of the Winter Soldier posing with a massive sniper rifle is emblazoned across his chest. Something clicks. "Do you read the comics too?"

"Yeah. I'm a big fan. He's actually my favourite character." Bucky points to Steve's sweater.

Oh. _Oh. Okay._

"That why you have the same hairstyle as him?" Steve teases, donning a shit-eating grin.

Bucky brings a hand to the nape of his neck and scratches it. "Maybe," he says, his shoulders lifted in a shrug and one of his eyebrows cocked.

Tilting his head back, Steve explodes into giggles. "Buck—Bucky," he says, before being cut off by another fit of laughter. When he finally collects himself, he wipes his eyes. "You're telling me, that your style icon is _the Winter Soldier_?"

"Hey! He looks cool, okay?" Bucky argues, readopting his previous position of having his arms crossed. His brow is furrowed, defensive. Steve thinks he looks adorable.

Somewhat distracted, Steve compliments Bucky, "I think you look cool too." And it’s true, he really does appreciate how handsome Bucky looks, Winter Soldier influence and all. He still winces when the words leave his mouth, though. It's bordering on the edge of flirting, and while he's pretty sure Bucky isn't entirely straight (Steve can tell, straight men usually aren't as nice as Bucky), he doesn't want to scare him off.

Fortunately, Bucky doesn't seem to pick up on it. And if he does, he doesn’t make a big show of it. Steve hears him mumble _thanks_ , and he turns around to give the tea a tiny stir before handing the cup to Steve.

Steve blows on the hot Chamomile tea and takes a small sip, sighing when he feels the warmth travel down his throat. He feels Bucky's gaze on him, probably looking for his reaction to the tea.

After a moment, Bucky tries to start up the conversation again. "So what do you like about the Cap comics?"

Steve sets the teacup down on the marble counter. "Oh man, a lot. But mostly the whole fighting for what's right thing that Cap's always got going on. Real inspiring. And Cap's—" he pauses, trying to find a way to phrase his words better. "Friendship. With the Winter Soldier."

"By friendship you mean they’re definitely fucking, right," Bucky deadpans.

Steve's face lights up and he rushes to elaborate, "Yeah, right! God, finally someone gets it. Some comic fans get so riled up whenever someone points out that they're obviously boyfriends."

Bucky makes a face of mock disgust, his tongue sticking out past his lips. "Straights. Gross."

Shifting his weight onto one foot, Steve hesitates before questioning, "You're not one?" Bucky's opinionated view on Cap and the Winter Soldier's relationship had given him some hope, but he still had to be delicate with the subject. Most guys didn't like it when people assumed they were anything other than straight.

"Fuck no. I'm gay as hell."

Steve exhales, tension lifting from his body. A small smile spreads across his lips. "I'm glad you told me. I'm bi, by the way."

"Don't you mean _bi_ the way?" Bucky jokes, grin toying at his lips.

"Please shut up,” Steve laments and covers his face with his palm, shaking his head. He hears Bucky crack up at his own joke, soft laughter filling the café. Steve decides he likes the sound of it, even if Bucky's kind of a dumbass, and the pun wasn't even that funny.

He lifts his head to find Bucky beaming at him, and he can't help but mirror it. Steve wants this to last forever, but his dreams are dashed when Bucky's phone pings with a notification.

Bucky pulls it out of his pocket and turns it on,  frowning as he reads the text. "I'm sorry to cut this short—but I have to go, promised my sister that I'd meet her tonight," he explains, apologetically.

"Oh. It's alright, dude, go ahead." Steve tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice as best as he can. He reaches for the teacup and downs the rest of it in one go, handing it to Bucky to put in the sink.

Bucky gets out from behind the counter and starts to walk to the door, Steve trailing close behind him. He holds the door open for the blonde, looking to him to ask, "See you tomorrow?"

"Of course," Steve replies.

Pleased with his answer, Bucky bids him good night. Steve walks out the door, turning to wave to Bucky as he leaves.

Elated, Steve gets back to his apartment. Both his stomach and his chest is filled with a warm fuzziness, the former from the hot tea and the latter from chatting with Bucky.

He toes off his shoes and messily lines them up by the wall. Sauntering to the bedroom, he carelessly tosses his keys and wallet onto the kitchen counter. When he reaches the foot of the bed, he lets himself fall face first onto the plush duvet and lies there, basking in his euphoria. He thinks about Bucky. Thinks about how he had seemed as passionate about the comics as Steve was. Shit, he was crushing. _Hard._

He blindly pats his hip in search of his phone, face still firmly planted on the cushy bed. Successfully pulling it out, he flips over to his back. He holds the phone above him and opens up the group chat he has with Sam and Natalia.

The previous messages are blurry pictures of a particularly fat pigeon Sam snapped, and Natalia’s concise reply of the thumbs up emoji. He shoots them a text of his own.

 

Steve: _he’s gay_

 

After he hits send, he closes the app and opens Twitter instead.

 

 **cap love bot** @captainshmerica:

_so coffee guy reads cap comics and ships wintercap and i just wanna thank not only god, but jesus_

He sends the tweet, then briefly follows up with:

 

 **cap love bot** @captainshmerica:

_fellas is it gay if i propose_

Steve spends a while more on Twitter until he decides he’s bored with it and switches over to reading an issue from the most recent Winter Soldier comic run. He’s six pages in when a message notification from the group chat pops up.

 

Sam: _who_

Nat: _Bucky, isn't it?_

Nat: _Steve never shuts up about him, how do you still not know his name?_

Steve: _very much appreciated nat_

Sam: _i blocked it from my memory, it’s a dumbass name_

Steve: _leave him alone_

Nat: _Anyway, how do you know he’s gay?_

Steve: _he told me_

Sam: _ask him out_

 

Steve reads the text and shifts over to his side. He reads it again. And again. Then he drops his phone next to him and looks up at his ceiling. Sam’s not wrong, he could easily just ask Bucky out on a date. Visit the café while Bucky’s on his break, or maybe right before closing time like he just did. He cycles through iterations of what he would say. _Hey Bucky, can I get a cappuccino and a date with you to go with it?_

He groans and picks up his phone again.

 

Steve: _how_

Nat: _You know how._

Steve: _yeah but How_

Steve: _do you happen to know if wikihow has an article on how to handle heartbreak when the guy you’ve had a crush on for months now inevitably turns you down_

Steve: _could really use it right about now_

Sam: _ok we get it theatre kid_

 

Steve has half a mind to dive headfirst into it as he does with most things in life. He’s had no problem flirting and being upfront in the past, and he knows he’s attractive enough to be considered a catch, but there’s something different about the whole situation that he can’t figure out. He doesn't want to run the risk of not being able to talk to Bucky the same way they do now.

So, maybe he’ll ‘fess up soon. Just after he figures out if Bucky’s interested in him too. Tactical planning, that's what this is. Nothing else.

He plugs in his phone charger and shuffles into the bathroom for a warm shower. After he's freshly clean and smells faintly of strawberries, he crawls back under the covers and continues reading the same comic until he lulls off to sleep.


	3. run into tea errors

Steve finds himself seated in front of the 22-inch screen of his drawing tablet yet again. It's mid-afternoon, and it's been a few hours since he got back from his morning gym session. Disgruntled, he leans back in his swivel chair and taps the tablet pen repetitively on the armrest.

He glares at the painting on the screen in front of him. It stares back, overwhelming details and pastels shades mocking him. Bringing the tip of the stylus back to the screen, he attempts to keep going by toggling with the transparency of the layers, the tones, the hues. He lifts a hand up to his head to make a fist in his hair.

He needs a break.

It’ll do him good, he reasons. He could come back with a fresh perspective of how he wants the painting to turn out, and perhaps more motivation to finish it. Convinced, he picks up a pair of sweatpants he finds lying discarded on the floor and pulls them on. Then he grabs his sketchbook and pencil bag and shoves them in a tote bag before heading out the door.

He marches down to the café and it goes the same as it always does. The bell jingles. Bucky welcomes him with a bright grin, flashing perfect milk-white teeth. They exchange their usual greetings, and soon enough Bucky is handing him his cup of caramel macchiato alongside a slice of pie topped off with a hefty dollop of whipped cream.

“It’s butterscotch, my ma’s recipe,” Bucky tells him in passing, before darting off to serve the next customer.

Steve holds the drink in one hand and balances the plate with the pie in the other. He finds a table easily enough and settles down, pulling out his sketchbook and placing it down on the table, hand coming to rest on top of it. Its front and back are covered with a plethora of stickers, the original cover material of black pleather barely peeking out under the overlapping of designs stuck onto it. They’re all from different franchises and artists, no distinctive theme between them. He’s had this book for a while, and just picked up the practice of sticking whatever stickers he got at conventions onto it so he could see them often. His favourite one is positioned right smack in the middle of the cover, a large and chubby golden retriever puppy rolled over onto its side.

He flips open the book and pushes it to lay flat, spine cracking slightly in protest. He surveys the café, searching for inspiration.

His eyes land on Bucky, who's too distracted with serving a customer to catch Steve staring. Steve sketches out the rough beginnings of a face, his eyes flicking back up to Bucky every few seconds. He studies his features. The slope of his forehead, his striking eyes, the curve of his chin. He renders them carefully onto the paper and pays meticulous attention to detail. When it comes to Bucky’s hair, he keeps the pencil lines fluid. It’s tied up into a ponytail today, stray strands framing his face.

His art process flows much more gracefully than earlier, long gone were the intangible and psychological barricades preventing him from drawing. Drawing Bucky just felt natural to him, like when he first started learning how to, and all he felt was unadulterated joy and calm, before the stress of being a professional artist got to him. Not that he doesn't love his job, but it has its ups and downs.

The faint scratchings of the pencil start to blend into the ambient noise of the café. Easily getting riveted by his work, Steve doesn't realise how quickly time passes until he notices Bucky pushing open the swing door of the counter and leaving. The brunette’s deft hands reach behind to untie the knot at the back of his apron as he walks through the curtains covering the entrance to the café’s kitchen. Moments after, a puppy-like teenage boy exits from the kitchen to take Bucky’s previous stand at the cash register, leaving Steve to presume that Bucky’s taking his lunch break. He’s seen the boy before on busier days, working alongside Bucky. _Peter_ , he recalls reading his nametag in the past.

Steve takes the opportunity to add the finishing touches to the page and takes a few pictures of it with his phone. Swiping through them, he picks the best one and crops it. He posts it on his stan Twitter account with a few hearts and a coffee cup emoji serving as a caption, not thinking too much about the consequences.

He hurriedly slams the sketchbook shut when he spots Bucky approaching his table.

“Mind if I sit?” Bucky says, hand hovering over the back of a chair. He’s holding a glass lunchbox in his other hand. From what Steve can see, it's pasta of sorts.

Steve leans forward, propping an elbow up on the table and resting his cheek against his hand. “You tell me, you literally own this place.” He playfully raises his eyebrows in question.

“It’s called being polite, punk.” Bucky slides into the seat opposite Steve and sets the lunchbox down on the table. He eyes the sketchbook and juts his chin out in the direction of it. “Can I see?”

_Fuck._

Steve blushes furiously and pulls the book closer to him as if Bucky would drop the request if he hid it well enough. “No. You can’t.”

“Please?” Bucky presses on, voice hopeful and soft.

His expression tugs at Steve’s heartstrings, and he acquiesces. “Fine,” he grumbles under his breath. He flips through the book until he finds a sketch of the Brooklyn skyline, splayed across a whole page. “You can look at this one,” he says, presenting it to Bucky.

The sketch is done entirely in black ballpoint pen. Steve had climbed up to the roof of his apartment building one night for fresh air, and couldn't resist drawing out the view. It’s messy, sure. But he had spent hours up there in the cold night working on the minuscule details, his phone torchlight illuminating the sketchbook. Needless to say, he’s proud of it.

Bucky’s face lights up like how the city did that night. He makes a small noise in wonder, eyes rapidly scanning the page as a goofy smile spreads across his face.

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky animatedly grabs his hand and exclaims, “You’re so talented!” His steel blue eyes are wide and eager with excitement like Steve had just told him they were going to Disneyland, not shown a drawing to.

“T-thanks,” Steve stutters out. His heart is pounding so violently he thinks it might jump out of his chest. _Of all people to have a crush on, why’d he go and pick someone as sweet as Bucky?_ Bucky’s hands leave Steve’s, and Steve internally bemoans the loss of contact. Steve watches Bucky trace the drawing with his fingertip in admiration, like he wanted to memorise every detail.

“Can’t believe you’re _this_ good..” Bucky gently shakes his head and mumbles under his breath, more to himself than Steve. He passes the book back over to him.

Steve swallows and changes the subject, gesturing over to the glass box in front of Bucky. “What’s that you got there?”

“Lunch,” Bucky pops open the lid and mixes the pasta around with a fork. “It's just Spaghetti Aglio e Olio, nothing special.”

“Sorry, what?” Steve says incredulously. He can’t even pronounce the damn name of the dish, and Bucky just called it _'_ _nothing special '._ Show off.

Bucky shrugs and twirls some pasta around his fork. “It's literally just pasta and oil, Steve.” He shoves the pasta into his mouth.

“Not all of us know how to cook, Bucky,” Steve retorts and pulls a face, though he keeps his tone light-hearted.

To this, Bucky lets out a snort in disbelief. “You’re a grown man and you seriously don't know how to cook?”

“I do!” Steve rushes to defend himself. “I just suck at it. I microwave everything,” he begrudgingly admits. His culinary knowledge is enough for him to survive on without ordering in every day, but it most definitely isn't impressing anyone anytime soon. He virtually lives off bland unseasoned chicken breast and boiled vegetables, the only things he can successfully cook with at least some certainty of not fucking up.

Shovelling more pasta into his mouth, Bucky nods. He chews and swallows before speaking again, “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” His face twists into a grimace. “How do you live like that?”

Steve makes a noncommittal noise, and replies, “It's not that bad?”

The brunette just stares at him, contemplative. Then he reaches for his phone and taps a few times before handing it to Steve. “Give me your number, I’ll send you some really good recipes to try. They’re easy, promise.”

Caught off guard, Steve stops for a split second. Of all the ways he’s fantasised about Bucky asking for his number, he never could have imagined that it would be under this context. He always thought it’d be more romantic, like those stories of hot baristas writing pick up lines on coffee cups. After all, Bucky’s hot. And most likely a barista. Steve doesn't actually know if he has the official title of one. “Okay,” he says, dragging it out. “But just saying beforehand, I’m probably still gonna screw them up.” He takes the phone in his hand and keys in his number, saving the contact name as ‘Steve 💖’.

Bucky’s gone back to eating more spaghetti. He hums at Steve’s comment. “I can help you out, y’know, just message me if you need anything. But I really don't think it's possible for you to be that bad.” He takes his phone back from Steve and smiles when he sees the contact name. “That’s cute.”

“What, the heart?” Steve asks, a soft smile tugging at his lips and his head tilting to the side.

Bucky smile morphs into something more mischievous, replying, “Yeah. Kinda looks like how people save their boyfriends’ names though, don’t you think?”

Oh. Steve hadn't thought of that. He just fancied the idea of having a heart next to his name on Bucky’s phone. “You can change it if you want.”

Bucky waves him off nonchalantly. “I’m keeping it, I like it.” His gaze meets Steve’s, to make a point. “Anyway, I don't got a guy who would get jealous about it.”

Barely refraining himself from pumping his fist in victory right in front of Bucky, Steve blurts out an almost too enthusiastic, “Same here.” He blinks and almost misses Bucky giving him a very brief once-over.

“Good,” Bucky says cryptically, before slurping down the last of the spaghetti. After wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, he gets up and starts packing up the box and utensils on the table. When he reaches for the long cleared and neglected plate of butterscotch pie, it seemingly prompts him to ask, “Did you like it? The pie?”

“Yeah! ‘Course I did, whatever you make tastes just—” Steve stops and kisses his fingertips in an attempt at a chef’s kiss. “Perfetto?” he tries, in uncertain and butchered Italian.

Bucky chuckles and his nose scrunches up in the middle, eyes forming crescents. “This is why you’re my favourite customer,” he remarks in a lilting tone, before walking off to the kitchen with the empty dishes in his arms.

Steve swears that he catches Bucky wink.

Five minutes later, Bucky emerges from the kitchen again with an entirely different demeanour. In place of the unapologetic confidence that Steve just witnessed, is a certain diffidence, leaving Steve puzzled. As soon as Bucky exits through the curtains, he scurries off to the counter. He doesn't acknowledge Steve, doesn't meet his gaze when the blonde looks up to throw him a smile. He has a frown on his face, his forehead wrinkled with what Steve perceives as confusion.

Brushing it off as him just over-analysing things, Steve goes back to his sketchbook. He busies himself with drawing dogs from memory, not wanting to go back to his commission work just yet. He draws puppy after puppy, adorning all of them with pretty flowers using a pink paint marker.

After an hour, Steve ends up with a page full of tubby puppies with cherry blossoms in their fur and Bucky, still avoiding him. By now, Steve’s sure that the other man is ignoring him on purpose, because whenever he glances over to him, Bucky hastily averts his gaze like he’d just been caught staring.

Perturbed, Steve packs up and leaves the café, wanting to avoid stressing both himself and Bucky out. Anxiety bubbles in his chest when he starts to entertain the nagging thoughts that Bucky was unsettled by something he said. He nips them in the bud and just hopes that the other man could sort out whatever was bothering him on his own. Overthinking would only make things worse, and maybe Bucky just needed some time.


	4. and that's the good news

After the unexpected incident at the café, Steve trudges back to his apartment and dejectedly attempts to immerse himself in his commission work for the rest of the evening—a habit that he’s had to pick up over the years to stop himself from getting swept away in a maelstrom of his own doubts.

He got stuck in his head a lot when he was younger, fretting over people’s judgements of him, albeit out of his control. When someone got upset, he blamed it on himself, trying to appease the other person. He knows better now; It had been a hard pill to swallow, but he eventually came to terms with the fact that he couldn't please everyone, no matter how hard he tried. So if he can help it, he leaves other people’s problems for them to figure out. It isn't his obligation to worry over it for them.

So with music blasting in his study and his attention laser-focused on his art, he temporarily pushes Bucky to the back of his mind.

That is, until dinner. He’s wolfing down the last of his chicken when his phone buzzes with a text notification from an unknown number. Cheeks still stuffed full with food, he checks the message.

 

Unknown: _hi_

Unknown: _is this steve_

Steve: _yeah, who is this?_

Unknown: _bucky_

Unknown: _u gave me ur number this afternoon_

Steve: _oh right_

Steve: _hi_

 

In all honesty, Bucky texting him was the last thing Steve expected to happen. His best-case scenario was him going over the next day to work things out with Bucky in person. But Bucky reached out to him first, and he didn't immediately open with an angry paragraph of text, so maybe Steve wouldn't have to.

The familiar three dots pop up, moving up and down in the grey bubble. The continuous motion reminds Steve of Newton’s cradle, and they keep him distracted until the grey bubble disappears again. While waiting for Bucky’s response, he pulls up the new contact page, saving the number under ‘Bucky 💞’. The bubble pops up a few more times before Steve decides to take matters into his own hands and text again.

 

Steve: _are you doing alright?_

Steve: _you seemed pretty off earlier_

 

This time, the reply comes much faster.

 

Bucky: _i’m good_

Bucky: _i owe u an apology_

Bucky: _i’m sorry i was being so weird_

Steve: _that's ok_

Bucky: _i guess i should ask u about it now_

Steve: _ask what?_

 

Bucky sends two images and Steve recognises that they’re screenshots of tweets in an instant. The tweets themselves, on the other hand, take a lot longer to process. As he skims through the words, the embarrassment slowly disseminates throughout his entire body, and he feels his face heating up at an alarming rate.

The first one isn't from too long ago, just two days before:

 

 **cap love bot** @captainshmerica:

 _guys Hot Barista Dude looks so soft and he was so sweet to me today i'm fhdjsj_ 💞💕💖💗💞💖😞💗💖

 

The second, though, is older. The time stamp states a week ago, but Steve frankly tweets so often now that he can’t quite say that he recalls making it.

 

 **cap love bot** @captainshmerica:

_soft coffee man if ur reading this i’m free on thursday and i would like to date please respond to this and hmu for a date on thursday when i am free_

 

Bucky: _are these about me_

Bucky: _i really hope they are or this is gonna be real embarrassing for me_

Steve: _is it too late to say you have the wrong number_

Bucky: _sooo_ _is that a yes_

 

Throwing his phone down, Steve drops his head and roughly drags his hands down his face. He feels his heartbeat quickening and his breathing turn shallow.  _Oh, God._ Maybe Bucky ignoring him was a better option than this.

His phone buzzes once. Twice.

 

Bucky: _i know this seems super creepy but i’m not a stalker i promise_

Bucky: _you’ve been my favourite art acc for ages now and i just never knew it was u :(_

 

Steve’s thoughts are racing a mile a minute, and the panic kicks in, full force, when the realisation dawns on him that Bucky’s probably seen every tweet that he's ever made about him.

With shaky fingers, he struggles to type out a response.

 

Steve: _do i have to stop coming over now_

Bucky: _no!!!_

Bucky: _why would u_

 

Steve exhales, releasing a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. It's a relief, at least, that Bucky hasn't blocked him, or threatened him with a restraining order yet. He bites down on his bottom lip, worrying it with his teeth while he resumes with his reply.

 

Steve: _oh man i don't know_

Steve: _maybe because you know about my twitter_

Bucky: _so?_

Steve: _i regularly tweet about you and you’re not weirded out?_

Bucky: _it's cute_

Steve: _you’re joking_

Bucky: _am i?_

Steve: _you have to be_

Bucky: _mhm_

Steve: _so_

Steve: _how’d you even find out_

Bucky: _i might have notifs on for ur acc_

Bucky: _and_ _i saw this on my lunch break today_

Bucky: _when i went back to the kitchen_

 

Bucky attaches the drawing from earlier. Steve sees the sketches of Bucky in his apron and he  _very_ vividly remembers.

 

Steve: _oh god i’m a dumbass i’m so sorry_

 

In retrospect, he couldn't have made it any more obvious about who his crush was, by posting a whole damn page filled with studies of him, several different angles and poses included, just in case one extremely detailed drawing Bucky’s face wasn't recognisable enough.

 

Bucky: _no!!_ _shut up this is the best thing anyone’s ever done for me_

Bucky: _i wish i could show you how grateful i am for it_

Steve: _thank you but you really don’t have to_

Steve: _i’m just happy you don't find this creepy_

Bucky: _i want to_

Bucky: _what would u say to dinner?_

Bucky: _to express my gratitude_

Steve: _i’d like that_

Bucky: _meet me at the cafe tmr night?_

Bucky: _round 8 when it closes_

Steve: _i’ll be there_

Bucky: _good :)_

Bucky: _can i call u_

Bucky: _i’m workin on a recipe and i can’t type_

Steve: _sure_

 

A moment later, his phone rings and he picks up with inhuman speed, dull ache in his cheeks from how hard he’s been smiling. “Hi,” he gushes.

“Hi,” Bucky answers, amusement evident in his voice. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing much. Just had dinner,” Steve balances his phone between his shoulder and his cheek. He stands up, pushing the chair away with the back of his calves and using his now freed hands to pick up the empty plate and mug.

Bucky makes a small sound of acknowledgement. There’s some shuffling on his end before he asks, “Was it good?”

Walking towards the kitchen, Steve replies, “Not really. You know how bad I am at cooking.” He dumps the dishes in the sink and turns the faucet on for a second, the splashing of the water mixing with Bucky’s sniggering coming from the other end of the line.

“Yeah. I said I’d send you some recipes, didn’t I? Before this whole…thing happened.”

Steve groans, “Don't bring it up—”

“Why not?” Bucky all but teases. “I find out that a cute guy has a crush on me and I’m not allowed to bring it up? ‘S a tall order, Steve.”

Scrubbing at the dishes, Steve blows out his cheeks. “You think I’m cute?” he questions, sceptical.

“Very,” Bucky states. “You’re not the only one here with a crush.”

His voice hushed and lowered, Steve mutters, “Yeah?” He knows it's unmistakable from context who Bucky’s talking about, but he wants to hear him spell it out. “Who is it?”

“You probably don’t know him. He’s, uh, he’s a real good looking guy. Blonde, buff, all that.” Bucky chuckles. “He comes to the café a lot, and he’s super sweet.”

Steve rinses off the dishes and puts them on the drying rack. “Are we cancelling our dinner tomorrow then? So you can ask him out?” 

“I—you’re a punk, you know that?”

Steve smirks, raising one eyebrow even though Bucky can’t see it through the phone call. “I’ve been told.” He knows he's being difficult, but he's determined not to be the first to confess tonight, having already endured enough of his feelings being exposed for one day. He dries his hands on a hanging tea towel and ambles off to his bedroom.

With an almost inaudible sigh, Bucky says, “Hold on, give me a minute.”

Lazily flopping onto his bed, Steve holds his phone up to his ear again and breathes out, “Sure.” Suddenly, deafeningly loud grinding sound blasts through his phone speakers. Reflexively, Steve jerks his head away from the offending noise. When the other line goes quiet, he brings the phone back close. “The fuck was that?”

“Uh. The food processor,” comes Bucky’s reply. “Don’t worry, I’m done now. I think.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “No, yeah, I’m done.”

Steve puts the call on speakerphone mode and shifts around on the covers until he's comfortable. He places his phone next to his head. “What are you makin’ anyway?” he asks, pulling a throw pillow close and wrapping his arms tight around it.

“It’s a surprise,” Bucky says, whimsical and secretive. “If you pop by early enough, maybe I’ll save some for you.”

“I will,” Steve assures. “What about dinner? Do you have a place in mind or is that a surprise, too?”

Repetitive sounds of metal clinking against something, probably a whisk, echo from Bucky’s end. It stops briefly and Bucky pipes up, making a suggestion. “I was thinking maybe the diner a few blocks down from the café? Josie’s?”

Steve drops the pillow from his hold and stretches out his arms above his head languidly, like a cat after waking up from a long nap. He lets out a tired yawn. “Mhm. Sounds good,” he affirms, rubbing his eyes.

“You should go to bed, sweetheart. It's late,” the brunette’s voice is warm and comforting, brimming with fondness.

Steve, thoroughly coaxed, complies easily enough. “Okay,” he whispers, before yawning for a second time.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Night, Buck.”


	5. nothing at all, just minding your hand

Alarm blaring mere inches away from his face, Steve jolts awake. The room is still blanketed in darkness, the Sun not yet risen for the day. He sweeps his arm clumsily across the duvet next to him until it hits the hard casing of his phone. The screen in front of him is glaringly bright, and he squints to read the bold 5:30 A.M displayed on it. Shutting the alarm off and dropping his head back down onto the pillow, he stares at the back of his eyelids. He yawns and reaches for his phone again, sleepily making a call. The monotonous ringing of the dial tone almost sends him back to sleep. Then Sam picks up.

“What,” Sam says, in lieu of a greeting. His voice is gruff from sleep.

“It's 5:30.”

“Fuck, man.”

Two hours and an intense run later, they end up strolling along the pavement. Steve’s too-tight shirt is sticking to his sweat-soaked torso, and beads of perspiration drip down his flushed neck.

Sam’s in a similar state, wiping at his face with his sweater sleeve. “Where’re we going?” he asks.

“Java Jive. I told Bucky I’d stop by.”

A knowing look crosses Sam’s features.“You gonna ask him out?” he inquires, lightly jabbing Steve in the ribs.

“Don't have to, we're already going to dinner tonight,” Steve responds, rubbing his knuckles against his beard. “He asked me last night. Over the phone.”

“You guys talked? On the phone?” Sam asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. “That's gay, man. You don't even call me.”

Steve wheezes, teetering on exasperated. “Sam, you’re literally gay. And I don't call you because we text every day.”

Sam shrugs, a cocky smile plastered on his face. Seemingly alerted by a notification, he digs into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out his phone. "Listen, I’d _really love_  to stay and watch you make heart eyes at Bucky," he quips, tapping at the screen. "But I gotta bounce. Riley wants me home for breakfast."

Cupping his hands around his mouth to mimic a loudspeaker, Steve taunts, "Whipped." This earns him a hard smack on the shoulder from Sam.

"Rich coming from you, Mr _I want Bucky to sit on my face,”_ Sam retorts, mocking Steve in a high pitched voice and snapping his hand open and shut like a hand puppet.

“I’ve never said that!” Steve flares, and this time he’s the one who playfully punches Sam’s arm.

Exaggeratedly rubbing his shoulder, Sam rebuts, “But you’ve thought it!”

Steve doesn't reply, instead closing his eyes and massaging his temples as though he had a sudden headache. “Why am I even friends with you?”

“‘Cause I’m cool,” Sam boasts, puffing up his chest like a bird.

Steve lowers his hand and stares at him in disbelief before dissolving into laughter at his stance. “Sure, pal,” he concedes, clapping Sam on the back as he starts walking again.

Sam catches up with him and they continue walking in synchrony until their paths diverge—Steve to the café and Sam back home. Sam reaffirms their plans to run again, same time next week, and they split after saying their goodbyes.

As soon as he walks into the café, Steve makes a beeline for the counter. He finds Bucky seated on a tiny stool, almost hidden behind the tall countertop. He’s chomping down on a Danish held in one hand and scrolling through his phone in the other. With his earbuds in and thoroughly engrossed in whatever he’s looking at on his screen, he’s oblivious to Steve’s presence.

“Hi?”

Bucky’s head snaps up and a quizzical look graces his features. He places an elbow on a drawer handle and pushes himself up, matching Steve’s height. “When I said pop by early I didn't mean it this early, Steve.”

Confused, Steve checks his Fitbit. 7:12 A.M. He glances back to the door, only now noticing the ‘closed’ sign hanging on a hook. “Oh.” He stands with his hands on his hips, unsure of what to do with himself. He’d been so intent on seeing Bucky after last night’s conversation that the time hadn’t occurred to him. “Should I leave?”

“No, it’s good.” Bucky gives him a warm smile. His eyes slowly trail down from Steve’s face to the rest of his body, unabashedly checking him out. He clicks his tongue.

Shifting under the weight of Bucky’s gaze, Steve jibes in a friendly tone, “Are you gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna tell me about the thing you were baking like you said you would?”

Bucky makes a tsk sound with his teeth. “I was gonna let it sit a while more, but.” He stalks off and disappears into the kitchen.

Steve hears the murmur of voices passing through the curtains, and shortly after Bucky comes out with a whole cake in his hands. It’s perched on a heavy-looking ceramic stand, and he has his palms pressed flat on the underside of it to keep it balanced.

“Peter’s in there,” Bucky absentmindedly comments and nudges his head in the direction of the kitchen as he sets the cake on the counter. Its entire exterior is covered in golden brown crumbs, and a honeycomb pattern is imprinted into the top of it.

“What is it?” Steve questions, head cocked to the side.

Grabbing a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall and slowly splitting the cake into neat slices with precise cuts, Bucky elaborates, “It’s called Medovik. Russian honey cake. Whole bunch of layers, like honey cookies. Then sour cream frosting that soaks into them overnight, so they get all soft.” He carefully pulls a slice out with the knife, revealing the intricate pattern of multiple skinny layers of cake stacked atop one another.

“Oh, I think I’ve had this before.”

“Really? It’s not that common.”

“It was at a friend’s house? It wasn’t round, though. It was this big square, had tons of walnuts in it,” Steve recalls, hands coming up in front of him to mime the shape of a square roughly the same size as the cake was. Two years ago, Natalia had specially ordered one from a fancy Russian restaurant for her birthday when he and Sam came over to celebrate at her house. Between the three of them, they almost finished the whole damn thing while seated on Nat’s living room floor binge-watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine episodes.

“That’s Smetannik,” Bucky says, sliding the slice carefully onto a plate and putting it in front of Steve. “It’s about the same? Except for the walnuts and the honey in the filling.”

“Sme—what?”

Bucky breaks into a grin. “Smetannik,” he repeats in a lilting voice, handing a fork over to him.

Steve wastes no time digging in. The crumbs fall off the top as he presses the fork down and cuts through the layers with ease. He bites down around the fork and chews, his eyelids fluttering shut. The one from Nat’s birthday was fucking great, with its caramelly sweetness, but Bucky’s takes the cake, quite literally. Despite how tremendously delicious Bucky’s baking already is, this somehow manages to top all of it, its heavenly flavour dancing on light Steve’s tongue. Steve’s no expert on cakes, but this might as well be the damn best in the world—which is exactly what he tells Bucky.

“I’m no expert on cakes, but this might as well be the damn best in the world.”

“That good?” Bucky chuckles, eyebrows lifting. When Steve gives him a happy nod, he takes the fork from Steve. “Lemme try.” He eats a piece of his own and hums. “I really outdid myself this time, huh?”

“Yeah, you really did,” Steve agrees. “Are you gonna put this one on the menu soon? I wanna snag some for a friend.”

Natalia had an art exhibit coming up in a week or so, and she’d love it if he surprised her with some of the cake, as a little congratulatory present. Well, she'd probably slug him in the arm first for making her cheat on her diet, but a solo exhibit was worth celebrating.

The exhibit was going to showcase several soft sculptures she had worked on over the course of last year, most of the completed ones he hasn’t even seen, only bits and pieces from videos that Nat sent to the group chat. He doesn't know how she even managed to keep everything in wraps for a whole year when Steve has to restrain himself from posting his art the second the last of the details are laid down. But then again, Natalia has a lot more self-control than he does.

“Mhm, probably. Is it the same friend whose house you tried it at?” Bucky asks.

“That one, yeah. Her name’s Natalia, I think she’d like this a lot.”

“I’ll make sure it's on the menu ASAP, then.”

Steve nods in agreement, picking up the fork from where Bucky set it down on the plate. He continues to eat while Bucky busies himself with dismantling and washing the espresso machine in preparation for opening. They settle into a comfortable silence, the only sound coming from Peter whipping something up in the kitchen and the running tap Bucky’s using.

Drying off his hands on his apron, Bucky speaks up, “Y’know, it’s kinda funny.”

“What is?” Steve mumbles through a mouthful of cake.

“I know you run it, but I can't link you and the captainshmerica account together.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t know? My dumb brain just kinda thought that Captain America himself ran the account,” Bucky admits as he shoves his hand in his pockets. “You’ve had that one panel of him as your profile picture forever.”

“Uh huh, I’m actually a 100-year-old super soldier, haven’t you noticed?

Pulling a hand out of his pocket and gesturing towards Steve’s arms, Bucky comments, “With those, you could definitely pass off as one.”

“You could too, look at you.”

Clad in a long sleeve henley under his apron that’s rolled up to expose his muscular forearms, Bucky’s a real sight to behold. Steve feels some vague longing to trace the veins on them with his fingertips.

“Maybe I could, but you’re more fitting for Cap. He's blonde, you’re blonde,” elaborates Bucky, making little hand motions in the air like he’s made a previously overlooked connection.

“Well, if I’m Cap then you’re Winter.”

“Damn, guess we have to get matching costumes when Halloween comes around then.”

“It’s May?”

“Never too early to start preparing, Steve.”

As if on cue, Peter walks out the curtains. “Mr Barnes? We gotta open soon, it’s almost 7:30.” When he sees Steve, he grins and gives him a friendly wave.

Steve waves back as Peter retreats into the kitchen, before turning his attention to Bucky again. “Your last name is Barnes?”

Exiting the counter and making his way to the door, Bucky replies, “Yeah, what ‘bout it?” He flips the hanging ‘closed’ sign to say ‘open’.

“Your initials are B.B. That's sorta dumb.”

The sound Bucky makes is a cross between a snort and a laugh. “You think my legal name is Bucky?” he says, walking back to where Steve’s standing.

Admittedly, Steve did think that Bucky’s name was strange at the start, but he hadn’t put much thought to it after that. He lives in New York, after all, encounters with weird names are common. Besides, he found the name Bucky endearing. It was charming in an odd way, much like Bucky himself.

“I mean, sorta? What is your legal name?”

“James.”

More perplexed than before, Steve questions, “How do you get Bucky from that?”

“It’s from my middle name, Buchanan. James Buchanan Barnes.”

“James Buchanan Barnes?” Steve tries, deciding he likes the way the name feels on his tongue.

“You got it.” Bucky gives him a proud smile, and he decides he likes that even more.

Bucky eyes shift from Steve’s gaze to look past him, and when Steve turns to look, he’s holding Peter’s forearm to pull him closer. “Peter, this is Steve. Steve, this is Peter. He’s my boy,” he introduces, ruffling Peter’s hair.

The teenager reaches out to excitedly shake Steve’s hand. “Hi! I’ve seen you around a lot, it's great to finally meet you! Or wait, uh, I guess we’ve already met but not like this—”

“It's nice to meet you too, Peter,” Steve chuckles, returning the handshake with just as much energy.

They break apart when the first customer for the day walks in, and Peter scrambles off to the cash register.

Steve picks up his empty plate from the countertop and passes it to Bucky. “I think I better go before it gets busy,” he says, lightly patting Bucky’s arm. “We’re still on for dinner, right?”

“Yep.”

“See you at eight.”


	6. break on the shake

For the second time that day, Steve enters The Java Jive. He’s switched out his running attire from that morning for a pair of light-wash jeans and a thick cardigan, worn over a plain white t-shirt.

All the hanging lights in the café are switched off, leaving it shrouded in darkness except for the kitchen. The curtains are pushed open wider than usual and Steve pops his head in to find Bucky hanging up his apron on a hook.

“Hey.”

Bucky turns and gives him a grin. “Hi.”

“You ready to go?”

“Yep.” Bucky grabs his satchel and slings it over his shoulder. “C’mon,” he says, coming up behind Steve and placing a warm and gentle hand on his lower back to ease him forward.

Bucky locks up and they begin making their way down the street to Josie's. The night breeze is cool against Steve’s skin, and he feels it hit his cheek when he turns to glance at Bucky.

He looks even prettier at night, with his dark hair being whipped around by the wind like in a L'Oréal commercial, and the soft glow of the street lamps illuminating his face perfectly.

It’s a little strange to Steve, seeing Bucky someplace that isn’t the café. Up till now, The Java Jive had been an inherent part of his meetings with him, with the strong aroma of coffee in the air and the usual background chatter. Bucky brings along the comforting familiarity of its atmosphere with him, though. This close, Steve can even detect the scent of coffee lingering on him.

“You look nice,” compliments Steve. Bucky’s ditched his apron, and without it he can appreciate how his shirt fits closely to the curve of the brunette’s chest, leaving little to the imagination.

“You saw me this morning.”

“I didn't tell you this morning.”

“True,” Bucky admits, eyeing Steve. “You look nice too, I’ve never seen you dressed up like this.”

“I usually don’t need to, working from home and all that.”

Eyes twinkling with mirth, Bucky nudges his shoulder to Steve’s. “Then we gotta do this more often, give you something to dress up for, right?

“Maybe, we’ll see,” Steve replies, reciprocating the gesture.

As they walk along, Bucky doesn’t make a move to shift away, and their shoulders stay inches away from each other.

They pass by a convenience store just as the doors swing open and a man hastily walks out. “Move,” he grunts, marching past Bucky and bodily slamming into his side in the process. The impact causes his hand to brush against Steve’s, and Steve’s breath hitches just the slightest bit.

“You okay?” Steve breathes out, concerned.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Bucky says with a small smile, before rubbing his shoulder and grumbling something akin to _rude fuck_ under his breath.

The vibrant neon sign above Josie’s tells them they’re at their destination, and Bucky holds the door open to let Steve in before him.

The diner is red-themed and homey, as most diners are. They find a corner booth and shuffle in, sitting at opposite sides of the table. The smooth red vinyl sinks under Steve’s weight and he picks up one of the menus left on the table, browsing through it.

Bucky doesn’t pick up a menu, seemingly content in watching him instead, so he asks, “Have you been here before?”

“Yeah. A couple times, actually.”

“What are you gonna get?”

“Turkey club sandwich, it's the best thing they have here.”

“Then I’ll go for that too,” Steve hums. He turns to the back of the menu, considering the drink options. He sighs when he sees the tempting strawberry milkshake printed on the page, in all its pink frothy glory. Going against his control, his fingertips come up to press against the glossy print.

Seemingly noticing his fixation, Bucky asks, “Do you wanna share one?”

Steve shakes his head. “Can’t. They make my stomach hurt,” he says, disappointment leaking into his voice.

“Maybe you’re lactose intolerant?”

“I don't know. I’m fine with iced coffee, you know that.”

“Me too, but milkshakes are worse, ‘s probably the ice cream and all.” Bucky rummages in his satchel and pulls out two white pill packets. “Try this later, it helps.”

“Huh.” Steve takes one and flips it over in his hand, reading the blue ‘Lactaid’ branded on the packet.

“It’s just enzymes, I’m not trying to drug you,” Bucky scrambles to supplement.

“Oh, that’s a bummer. I was hoping it was coke.”

“As if I’d give that out for free,” Bucky chuckles.

“Touché.”

A waitress approaches their table, an intimidating teen with a full head of magenta hair. Bucky raises his hand to catch her attention and she comes over with a cheery smile, flipping open a little notepad and asking, “What can I get you guys?”

“Two turkey club sandwiches and a strawberry milkshake, please,” Bucky says, handing her the menus. “And can we get two straws with that?”

“Sure thing,” she replies, tucking the menus under her arm. “So, two turkey club sandwiches and a strawberry milkshake with two straws. Is that all?”

Bucky nods in confirmation and the waitress walks back to the kitchen, leaving Steve to awkwardly pick up the conversation again by asking, “How was your day?”

“It was alright. Had this guy who came in this morning, though,” Bucky starts. “It was a little after you left, I think. He ordered four slices of cake and I thought he had friends he was waiting on or something, but he ended up finishing them on his own. He looked so sad too, and I felt really bad so I made him hot chocolate. Poor guy, must’ve been a rough day.”

“The cakes probably helped.”

“Probably.”

Their sandwiches arrive and they talk more over them, their jobs and family unavoidably coming up in passing. To Steve’s delight, he learns that they have more in common than he originally thought. They’re both close to their family, and their love for baking and art respectively had stemmed from a childhood spent with their mothers encouraging them to explore what they were passionate in.

Bucky tells him that his interest in baking was piqued by his ma, watching her knead bread dough and mix up cake batter in their cozy kitchen when he was younger. Steve had a similar experience; Sarah used to draw him as a child when he was staying relatively still, distracted by his action figures and their imaginary worlds. She’d show the drawings to him, and in response, he’d pick up a marker to etch her likeness into a notebook, or as close to her likeness as a 6-year-old could get.

The conversation flows easily between them, like how it usually does in the café, except now Bucky doesn’t have to rush off to start another shift or serve any customers. They’re in the middle of discussing the latest Captain America issue when the waitress comes over and sets the coveted milkshake down on their table. Whipped cream, cherry on top, and two straws like they asked for.

They both pop the Lactaid pills in their mouths and attempt to take a sip of the milkshake at the same time, their foreheads colliding. Steve pulls away, rubbing at his forehead, and playfully kicks Bucky’s shin under the table. Laughing, Bucky hooks his calf around the back of Steve’s and pulls, causing him to slide closer to the edge of his seat. Steve draws Bucky’s leg closer in his direction in retaliation, initiating an impromptu tug-of-war under the table.

Taking advantage of Steve’s state of distraction, Bucky’s hand snaps out to grab the tall milkshake glass. He sticks both straws in his mouth and proceeds to slurp down a generous portion of the shake, the liquid in the glass disappearing rapidly.

Seeing it as a challenge, Steve makes grabby hands at the glass, only to have Bucky hold it away from him.

Then Bucky places the glass back down and groans, rubbing at his temples. “Ugh, I shouldn't have done that.”

Taking joy in Bucky’s suffering, Steve just lets out a full-throated laugh.

Bucky kicks his shin.

Half an hour later, the milkshake glass is empty, and he’s not really sure how the conversation lead to this, but Steve finds himself telling Bucky about that one time—

“—a fetish blog commissioned me? Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t even know it was a porn thing until after I accepted it!”

“Steve, I—What the fuck?” Bucky’s in hysterics, his grin impossibly wide and his eyes squeezed shut.

“When they emailed me they made it sound like a Catholic thing and I thought— _Oh cool, I’m always down for religious imagery in my art_ —because I really am,” Steve recounts, ersatz enthusiasm in his voice.

“Yeah, go on?”

“The guy was asking for this biblical character in ropes, so I send him the rough drafts of the piece, yeah? But he keeps telling me to make the rope patterns more complicated, and I’m about to turn him down because he's being real difficult,” he raves, his hands moving wildly in front of him. “Then this fucker sends me a reference pic.”

Leaning forward, Bucky edges him on, “And?”

Steve drops his hands down on the table in a theatrical fashion. “It’s goddamn _bondage porn_.”

Bucky laughs, light and bubbly with his head tilted back and throat exposed. At the sight of him, Steve cracks up too, his shoulders shaking with the sheer force of it, and his hand pressed flat on his chest.

Loudly clearing his throat, Steve calms himself down and wipes away the tears from his eyes. “Anyway, I told him I didn't do fetish art after that, and then he cussed me out over email so I blocked him.”

“Classic.” Bucky takes a swig from his water glass. “But you’re still fine with painting nudity, right?”

“‘Course I am. I went to art school, pal. Nude figure studies aren't a new thing.” The combination of figure drawing classes and his own interest in Renaissance art had cultivated his appreciation for the human body, usually depicted with all its of soft curves, hard lines, and vast expanses of skin. And while he definitely doesn't make it a point to have the subjects in his art entirely exposed—that’d seem crude, even for him—he doesn't shy away from nudity in his work. Unfortunately, there’s always the odd individual who mistakes it for something more sexual than he intends, as proven by the occasional fetish-driven commission requests.

Bucky’s lips turn up into a sly smile. “So if I commissioned you, would you paint my nudes?”

Steve nearly chokes on his own spit. A strangled noise forces its way out of his throat and he chokes out, “Why—why the fuck would you want that?”

Bucky leans back in the puffy vinyl seat and crosses his arms. “Just because. I think it’d look good hanging over my bed. Like millionaires in movies, y’know,” he smirks, a little silly-looking.

“The only thing you should have hanging over your bed right now is a cross. Have you considered going to church? Reading the good book? Maybe not thinking about hanging up your nudes?” Steve says. “I mean, listen. What if you have someone over, and they go into your bedroom, and there's just a huge painting of you, dick out on a Tuesday.”

“What's so bad about that?”

“No one wants to see your dick, Bucky!”

Okay, well. Steve’s lying. He sorta wants to. Would love to do more than just look at it, even.

“You don't know that,” Bucky tosses back, jutting his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “So is that a no?”

“Definitely! It's weird.”

“So is drawing me at work and posting it on Twitter, but you don't hear me saying anything about it.”

“That’s low, you said you were fine with it.”

Bucky lifts his shoulders in a small shrug. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Sure you did.”

Somewhere around half past 10, they decide it’s late and finish up at Josie’s, paying their bill and leaving a substantial tip.

“Can I walk you back home?” Bucky offers, pushing the glass door open as they leave the diner.

“If you wanna.” Steve walks as slowly as he can, trying to drag the night out for as long as possible before they reach his apartment door and have to part. “Where do you live? Nearby?”

“I live close to you, actually. Your building’s on the way to mine.”

“I’ve never seen you around.”

“Makes sense, I’m normally either at the café or at home. Don’t get out much other than that.”

“Same. Ah, the perks of being self-employed, sometimes you forget to have a life outside of work,” Steve says sarcastically, wrapping his cardigan tighter around his torso to shield himself from the biting cold.

“It doesn't even feel like work most of the time, does it?” Bucky chuckles. “I used to bake for fun and now it's my job, takes some getting used to.”

Contemplative, Steve nods. “I get that. I used to be a lot worse at balancing work and other stuff, because I was just so happy I could paint for a living when I first started out that I forgot that it was an actual job, not just a hobby. I’m better at it now, though.”

“That’s good, I gotta learn how to do that soon,” Bucky sighs.

“You will.”

They arrive at the apartment building, coming to a halt outside the glass doors.

Steve’s fiddling with his the hem of his cardigan, preparing himself to say goodbye, when Bucky pipes up.

“Do you have Instagram for your art? You mention your speed paints a lot and I realised I haven't seen any of it besides the captainshmerica stuff,” he says, whipping his phone out.

“I do, I’m @sgrogersart on Insta. I swear the art there is better than, um, my other account.”

Opening the Instagram app, Bucky types in his account in the search bar. “This one?” he asks, showing the account profile to Steve.

“Yeah.”

Bucky looks back at his phone before saying in a flat voice, “You’re kidding. You drew all this?”

“Yes?”

“What the fuck.”

Disconcerted, Steve shifts closer to Bucky to peek at his screen. “What?” Looking at it, he can’t figure what Bucky’s expecting him to notice. The page is open to his most recent post, a painting with a few people in white tunics and laurel wreaths being smothered in a sea of flower petals, primarily pink and white. It was loosely inspired by a detail shot of The Roses of Heliogabalus, and had started off nothing more than a practice session with a new impasto brush pack he downloaded, but evidently, he got carried away.

Bucky looks at him and then down to the painting again like he's struggling to connect them together. “I can’t believe—wow, okay, you’re officially the most talented artist I’ve ever met. You could be modern-day Michelangelo, Jesus.”

Steve snorts.

Bucky swats his shoulder. “No, shut up, I’m serious! You’re my favourite artist of all time, for real.” He pinches the screen and zooms into the details of the painting. “God, this is incredible.”

Awkwardly sliding his hands into his pockets, Steve replies, “Thanks.” Suddenly realising that they’ve probably been standing outside his building longer than socially acceptable, he clumsily points towards the door. “I’ll, uh, go now.”

“Oh, okay.” Bucky pockets his phone and reaches for a parting hug, patting Steve on the back. “Goodnight.”

Steve’s caught by surprise, but he slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulder in return. He wants to melt into Bucky’s firm hold, but he wills himself to pull away after a brief moment.

“Bye, see you tomorrow.”

“Uh huh. See you tomorrow,” parrots Steve, waving to Bucky as he backs away.

When Bucky turns, Steve sighs and takes the stairs up to his apartment.

He stumbles in through the door, kicking his shoes off and slumping onto his couch. He grabs his phone and opens up the group chat.

 

Steve: _nat_

Steve: _sammy_

Steve: _are you guys up?_

Sam: _no_

Steve: _i’m revoking your best friend card_

Sam: _tragic_

Nat: _I’m here. What is it?_

Steve: _i went out to dinner with bucky_

Nat: _Finally. Are you gonna stop calling me at 4am to cry about how pretty he is now?_

Steve: _nat that only happened once_

Nat: _Details._

Sam: _so how’d it go_

Steve: _tmr’s movie night, i’ll tell you guys then_

Steve: _i’m tired as fuck rn_

Nat: _I wonder why._

Sam: _;)))_

Steve: _i hate both of you_

Steve: _i’m going to bed_

 

As he tucks himself under the covers for the night, it occurs to him that his stomach didn’t hurt even though he downed at least half of the milkshake he and Bucky had ordered. In his last silvers of consciousness, he blesses Bucky and his magic Lactaid pills, before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
